I Want to Hold Your Hand
by chameleoncake
Summary: A series of Harry Potter drabbles and oneshots inspired by Beatles songs.
1. Something in the Pink Satin

Draco/Hermione

Summary: Something in her attachment to that pink dress made him love her even more. (Inspired by "Something" by the Beatles)

He swore that dress had been made just for her.

The pink satin seemed to mold to her, draping gently - almost floating - over every curve of her body. It looked like someone tore the edge off of a cloud and spun it around her.

The first time he saw her in it - on their fourth date - he almost didn't want to touch her because of how perfect she looked. Every curl suddenly seemed intentional. Every blotch of red skin became a rosy brushstroke. She was always gorgeous, stunning, a hundred words worth of beautiful. In this dress, though...

She was something else. Someone else. Unapproachable. Eerily perfect.

He kept a distance from her. He had this feeling he wouldn't be able to so much as hold her hand without ending up bruising her lips or messing up those perfectly placed curls. He could either stay still or spill ink all over the table.

He asked her about it somewhere between the tenth and twentieth time he saw her wear it. She said it wasn't anything special, really. Her parents had given it to her for her 16th birthday.

Over the next few months, she wore it more and more frequently.

She wore it when she listened to old records. Sometimes, she'd sprawl out on their sofa, twirling her fingers in the skirt and tapping her foot to the sound of a piano or a violin or a synthesizer, just losing herself.

And Draco would just watch her.

She liked to wear it when she read her muggle romance novels. He noticed she bit her lip every time she turned the page. He also noticed she drummed her fingers on the paper sometimes, and he wondered if any those records were still playing in her head.

She always wore it on birthdays, and not just hers. She'd gotten green frosting on it once, because she had it on baking a cake for him. She never could quite get the stain out, and, for some reason, he loved that - loved having his name etched into the satin.

There were some evenings he would find her crying in it, leaving little tear stains on the skirt she buried her face in. He'd hold her and sing her a song from one of her records - her great aunt's records, she'd once told him. He could only remember the lyrics in blurry patches, but he knew she didn't care. He knew, in her head, she was filling in the blanks. Even her weakest moments, she never stopped being Hermione Granger.

Always in her dress. Always filling in the blanks.


	2. We Can Work It Out

Ron/Hermione

Summary: It was always her. The way her books were covered in juice and chocolate stains. The way she sounded like a textbook whenever she explained things. The way she was. Only her. Only them.

Nothing should have stood in their way.

Inspired by "We Can Work It Out" by The Beatles.

* * *

How was she supposed to tell him?

After months of arguing and yelling and crying, she'd finally had enough. She'd walked right out of their flat just a week ago. She didn't even say anything.

But now...

No, she couldn't go back. She couldn't face him now. There was no way. He would just yell at her - give her some passive aggressive remark before telling her to get out. There was no way she could go back.

She just wouldn't tell him.

Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. Just...hide a tiny Weasley. Hide all that red hair. Maybe if she died it or shaved it or -

No. She moved to fall back on the pillows, but her head hit a piece of chocolate. Again. Hadn't she asked they stop bringing her those? All they did was remind her of him. He always made hot chocolate when Winter came around. He'd always tell her to put her book down when she was drinking it, because she'd always spill chocolate all over the pages.

And she never listened.

His face was everywhere in that hotel room.

In the tiny shampoo bottles. He had to miniaturize his plates and cups so he could fit them all in their tiny cabinet. He kept buying these collectibles with professional Quidditch players' faces on them. He must have had hundreds by this point; he even had one with Ginny. Whenever he got a new plate or cup or napkin or silverware set, he'd burst in through the door and ramble out biographies.

She loved that.

Every now and then, though, she'd come across one that she hadn't seen before, and each time, her heart sunk a bit.

She saw his face in the telly, too. He'd only ever seen one as a kid, when his father brought one home. Ron had gotten a chance to use it, and he'd only learned what it was when he saw a picture of something similar in a catalog Hermione was reading, and he asked her about it. Arthur's fascination with the muggle world didn't quite pass on to Ron, but he asked Hermione questions about it all the time. Sometimes questions would turn into trading childhood stories. Sometimes they'd sit for hours just talking about their families.

She loved that.

* * *

She tried to knock, but her hands just trembled on the wood.

As soon as he opened the door, as soon as she saw her face, she fell apart. She covered her face and shook her head. At the sound of his voice, she stood still.

"Hermione, wha—are you o—"

"I'm pregnant." He stood there for a few seconds, just staring at her. Frozen.

"Come inside," he finally said, gesturing an arm past the door.

And then she was frozen. She wiped away a tear and folded her arms before walking in. On the way to the couch, she stopped in her footsteps. "I'm—" He turned around, and, for a second, it looked as if he was going to reach out for her. "I'm so sorry, Ron," she said in a strained voice.

"Hermione..." She felt so stupid. She was so embarrassed. She considered walking out again for a moment. "Hermione, look at me." His arm was on her shoulder now, and she only now realized she'd been staring at the floor.

"Oh, God," Hermione said, pacing towards the sofa and finally sitting down. She ran a hand through a tangle in her hair. "What are we going to do?"

With that, Ron nearly ran towards her. When he reached her, he held her face and gave her the most serious, no-nonsense look she'd ever seen on him. On anyone, actually.

"I'll tell you." A gentle voice came out of his hard expression as he brushed a curl out of her face. The sound was so comforting that she almost started sobbing again. "We're going to love that kid more than anyone has ever loved anyone. Ever."

That got her crying. She fell into his shoulder and felt his mouth open, but he didn't say anything. Then,

"And they're going to love you to pieces...like anyone would."


	3. Here Comes the Sun

Neville/Hannah Abbott

Summary: He really liked - no, loved - no, adored the idea of it, being her "everything".

Inspired by "Here Comes the Sun" by The Beatles.

* * *

Neville had never been much of anything. He'd had average marks in school. He wasn't anything special appearance-wise. He was terribly awkward in social situations. He would surely have no legacy - would surely be lost in history. Maybe that was why he was so caught of guard that one summer evening.

They'd been lying in bed. She was reading the Prophet, his head settled in her shoulder. Sometimes, they fell asleep like that. He treasured those moments - moments of quiet, of just being together - more than anything. "You know," she said, pushing her reading glasses up, "I really love you." He looked up at yer with narrowed eyes. Where was this coming from? Hannah had never been the type to just...say that. Out of nowhere. When she said it, it was in moments her love for him was all she could think about.

"Yeah, well, I love you t—"

"No," she said, setting her paper down and glaring at him. "I really love you. More than you know. You're...you're my everything, Neville." She placed a hand on his cheek, as

he kept staring blankly at her. Taking that hand in his, he propped himself up by his free arm.

"I - are you okay?"

"More than okay," she said with a smile.

So, he leaned over her to turn the bedside lamp off before lying back down.

Just before he started to drift off, he found her hand again.

"I think I like being your everything," he said.

"I know."

* * *

Neville had never felt much of anything. Other than embarrassment and shame. Occasionally relief.

So maybe that's why he was so overwhelmed when he fell for Hannah.

Neither of them had ever really noticed each other in school. They'd shared a load of classes together, and heard each other's names about a thousand times, but neither really paid any mind to the other.

Then, years later, he stumbled into the Leaky Cauldron. He soon wouldn't be able to remember why.

Because he spotted her at work. Her work.

He'd heard from Luna and a few others that someone from their year owned the inn now, but had just brushed it into the back of his mind. Like most things.

But now, seeing this humble-looking blonde levitating cups and plates up from tables as she brushed dust off her apron, he looked back on another blonde's words. Vague splotches of ink appeared in his head. Words from one of Luna's many - _many -_ letters.

 _Do you remember that Abbott girl in your year? The one from Hufflepuff? Harry says she runs The Leaky Cauldron now. Makes you wonder what everyone else is doing, doesn't it?_

And looking back on those words, looking at the Hufflepuff alumni standing just a few feet away from him, looking at the first name the sorting hat called that first year, looking at _her_ , he could only see the rest of his life.

So he said something.

"Er - Hannah?"

Nothing great, but something.

* * *

And people cared about Neville, sure, but no one had considered his problems a top priority. In fact, he'd _been_ someone's problem too many times to count.

So maybe that was why his heart was going to burst from relief when she held him in the snow as he cried. Just held him, as he lay in her arms sobbing.

It had been a nightmare. He'd gotten this idea stuck in his thick head that, maybe, after all this time, after all he'd been through…

Certainly he could handle visiting his parents.

He was a grown man now. Surely it was time.

He even talked the idea over with Hannah. She should have warned him. Why didn't she say anything? Why didn't she tell him how stupid he was being? No, she just hugged him and asked if he wanted her to come along.

He did. She held his hand through the whole visitation, and he couldn't tell who was holding on harder.

He should have known what to expect. Of course they looked horrid. Of course they didn't make any sense. Of course they didn't know who he was.

He almost ran out of the building, and Hannah still didn't let go. He felt himself falling into some sort of downward spiral that he couldn't get out of no matter how hard he struggled, how violently he squirmed, how loud he screamed. He kept walking until he felt icy air hit his hands. He sunk to the snow-covered pavement. Reacting more quickly and with more purpose than he'd even seen her do anything, she fell to her knees too, and she and pulled that broken man towards her. She was just as broken, both for her own reasons and for his. And she cried for the both of them that day.

Neville had never felt like anyone. He'd never quite figured out who he was.

And maybe that was why he loved being her everything.


End file.
